


phantasmata

by therewithasmile



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice (Comics), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Complete, Drabble, Emotional, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 14:38:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17347031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therewithasmile/pseuds/therewithasmile
Summary: "I will always love her...If she can forgive me."Her eyes flutter open.---Set after Torchsong II, in which M'gann M'orzz remembers someone, saying something, but the details flee with the morning light.





	phantasmata

**Author's Note:**

> Written listening to "Infections of a Different Kind" by Aurora. Feel free to listen while reading. 
> 
> I may write more to this someday, I just had to get something out of my system.

_I will always love her._

_If she can forgive me._

Her eyes flutter open.

The memories are barely wisps in her blurred mind, tangible, yet non corporal; curling around each finger before flitting into nothingness. In reality, she doesn’t remember much. But beneath the fog and the confusion, she recognizes a few things: blue eyes, black hair, and maybe a gravelly voice, simultaneously aged and youthful, whispering a figure that she too often dreamt of.

A figure that, quite honestly, exists just rooms away from her.

It’s cold, M’gann realizes. It’s cold, even though it’s cold back on Mars – _home,_ once, until here was; but where _is_ home for her? The thought itself is dizzying, intoxicating, _horrifying_.

And she’s _cold_.

Is it sleep that fogs her mind, or the unmistakeable bittersweetness on her tongue? It’s familiar, but in ways she can’t describe. How can one year truly be so different from four? And yet in just that long, just like her, he’s _changed_.

She realizes she’s lonely, too.

_._

_I don’t know where we’re going…_

_Or what’s going to happen…._

_But I forgive her._

His hands are warm. His smile doubly so.  

_For anything._

 “ _Really?_ ”

The voice isn’t hers, she thinks; but it sounds like hers and is awkward like hers and it may really well be _hers_. But the moment that thought slips in, the twinkling lights fade and his smile melts into nothingness.  She wants to reach out.  She wants to grab his chin and hold him there and ask him what he means and she wants nothing more to press her lips against his –

But she reaches out, and her hands grasp at nothing.  Just like it always does, like it always is.

Her hand closes into a fist.

She’s still cold.

.

There’s a song that dances on the edges of her mind – a picture of lights, a picture of a stage and a microphone and him. Blue eyes. Dark hair. Long, slow breaths, so visceral she can feel each inhale like her own.

_I forgive her._

_For anything…_

His lips are close. They’re familiar, both by sight and by _touch_. She can feel their echo upon her own, against blazing skin and rapid hearts and small sparks that melt into ice before shifting to lava. If her hands weren’t glued to her sides, she could just press _one_ palm and be sent spiralling to a place where the cold and the loneliness and regret and sorrow couldn’t find her.

As much as she struggles against the invisible rope that binds her together; as much as she stretches even her _fingers_ in an attempt to snatch at the fleeting feeling – so that she might be able to experience that, just _once_ – her stomach sinks and she jolts awake, heaving, _cold._

She brushes a single tear from her eye.

.

_And everything._

It’s too familiar, his thoughts and his body and his shape and his _voice_ , though the words are barely syllables and even less tangible than that. If she tries, _really_ tries, maybe she can discern some of it. But maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe she shouldn’t, or she’d hope and expect when it’s really just a dream, and she feels like she’s already been asleep for the entire year.

So she’s not sure why she does it. She doesn’t know why she ends up at his door and she doesn’t know why she’s afraid to knock and she doesn’t know why the door swings open before she even lifts a fist.

Blue eyes. _So familiar._

_I will always love her._

They soften. She hopes she’s imagining the warmth behind them.

She doesn’t remember. She doesn’t remember why those words linger in her mind and why they sound like him when he’s right _there_ and she doesn’t know why she feels all these things: a dizzying swirl of emotion that threatens to become elation but instead ebbs away into fear, _anxiety_   -

Her eyes meet his. The fire burns in the pit of her being, a spark of recognition, of past exhilaration, of new trepidation – of a phantom who whispers punctuated nonsense into her ears in her sleep.

She’s not cold anymore _._

.

**_Always._ **


End file.
